


I Put A Spell On You

by rosegoldroman



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Hocus Pocus (1993) References, M/M, hocus pocus au, unsympathetic virge/remus/dee but only for a few paragraphs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-11-02 10:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20714213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegoldroman/pseuds/rosegoldroman
Summary: Remy doesn’t like Halloween. What he does like is impressing his crush, Emile Picani, Salem’s resident witch fanatic. When a night out trick-or-treating with his brother Roman turns into a quest to explore the old Sanderson Museum, with Emile by his side, it’s like a dream come true — even if Roman thinks it’s more like a nightmare.It’s not like there’s anything to be scared of, right? Those old superstitions, all that shit about the Sanderson Brothers — it’s not like any of it is real.After all, it’s just a bunch of hocus pocus.





	I Put A Spell On You

**Author's Note:**

> i cant believe its taken me this long to do a hocus pocus au
> 
> this is based off a prompt request from @joygaytrash on tumblr ("Trick or treating is for children. Let's go cause some trouble.") that had me waking up this morning in a panic because i realized how easily i can turn that into a hocus pocus au
> 
> and now, many hours and 4k words later, here we go,,, the combination of 2 of my hyperfixations 
> 
> enjoy!

Remy wasn’t the biggest fan of Halloween.

He’d liked it enough back home in L.A., where it was more about parties and stupid horror movies and seeing how much pumpkin-spiced garbage you could shove down your throat in one night. But he’d been dragged away from his home and dropped smack-dab in the middle of Lametown, U.S.A. — a.k.a., Salem. Salem, where everyone from toddlers to teachers believed in _witches_ and _ghouls_ and other such things that go bump in the night, where the best “parties” were boring masquerade balls thrown by old rich dumbasses _for_ old rich dumbasses.

Salem, where trick-or-treating was a cultural must.

Salem, where the only thing lamer than going trick-or-treating was being forced to take your dorky-ass brother out trick-or-treating.

He hunched his shoulders, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his leather jacket, and hoped his dark shades were enough to keep anyone from recognizing him. Roman pranced ahead of him with a spring in his step and a song on his tongue, his prince costume — hand-sewn by Mom, of course, _anything_ for the _golden child_ — sparkling orange-purple-green in the lights from the houses they passed.

“Girl,” he hissed, falling into step beside his brother, “you’ve got enough candy to feed a small army. Can we go home now?”

“Nope!” Roman beamed, showing off his gap-toothed, sugar-coated smile. “We haven’t even hit the best houses yet! Miss Valerie told us at school that there’s a lady on this street who gives out freshly-baked cookies!”

“Isn’t that just _Gucci,”_ he muttered, rolling his eyes. Roman didn’t hear him — or, more likely, he did, and he just didn’t care. He skipped merrily up the steps to a tall, brightly-lit house, and bounced on the balls of his feet as he rang the doorbell. Remy leaned heavily against a post at the bottom of the stairs and glared at the ground, arms crossed tightly.

“Woah-hoh! If it isn’t _Hollywood!”_

Remy’s blood ran cold. Of _course._ Of _all_ the people to catch him trick-or-treating, it _had_ to be the two biggest dumbshits in the world! He lifted his gaze, trying to remain as nonchalant as possible as his heart pounded in his throat.

Two goons stood at the front gate of the house, with a small gaggle of other goons gathered behind them. Nate — the leader, and the dumbest of all the dumbshits — leaned languidly against the gate, a cruel, slow smile etched across his face. He pushed off the gate and stalked towards Remy, slow as syrup and twice as sickly-sweet.

“Sorry to break it to you, girl, but I think you’re lost,” Remy sneered, standing to meet him. “The dumbass convention is _that_ way.”

His goons burst out laughing, and Nate shot them a glare, hands curling into fists. His second goon-in-command, a tall, lanky kid with sunglasses and a woven black scarf, stepped up beside him, still laughing. Nate jabbed an elbow into his side. “Shut _up,_ Derek,” he hissed.

“I told you, it’s Dice now!” the goon said, clutching his chest in offense. Remy snorted, raising an eyebrow, and Dice whirled on him with all the fury of a thousand suns. “You got a problem with my name?”

“Remy?” Roman appeared beside him, holding his bag of candy to his chest. “What’s going on?”

“Roman, go home,” Remy said, shoving him away. “It’s nothing.”

“Ohoh, _nothing?”_ Dice snickered, turning to block Roman’s escape path. “You didn’t tell us you had a brother, _Hollywood!_ What’s your name, darling?”

Roman lifted his chin, his hand going to the plastic sword hanging by his side, and Remy dropped his head into his hands, wishing, _praying_ for death. “I am Prince Roman!” Roman declared, drawing his sword. “Who are you villains to accost my big brother is such a heinous way?”

Oh. Oh _great,_ he was using the Prince Voice™ and everything. Remy’s soul ascended to another plane of existence solely to curse out whatever cruel god had decided to drop him in this situation, and when he came back to Earth, he found Roman holding the edge of his sword alight at Dice’s throat.

“Ooh, so scary!” Nate taunted, laughing. “Tell you what, Princey. Give us your candy, and we’ll let you off easy.”

“No way!” Roman cried — and he swung his plastic sword with all the might a 9-year-old could muster, and it cracked into the side of Dice’s head with a dull _whap._ Remy grabbed his brother’s shoulder and yanked him behind him, eyes widening.

“Oh, you’re _dead,_ Hollywood,” Dice growled, rubbing the side of his head. In a blind panic, Remy grabbed Roman’s candy and yanked it out of his hands, shoving it into Nate’s arms. Then he grabbed Roman, swung him into his arms, and _ran,_ vaulting over the gate.

_“No!”_ Roman cried, thrashing, desperate to be put down. “What are you _doing?_ Go back! Lemme — lemme _fight!”_

He didn’t stop until the goons’ yelling faded behind them, until he’d twisted down so many side streets that there was no chance of being found. He set Roman down and doubled over, panting heavily.

“You _jerk!”_ Roman growled. “We could’ve taken them!”

“What the _hell_ is wrong with you?” Remy hissed, eyes narrowed. He’d never wanted to strangle his brother more. “They would’ve _killed us._ I just saved our lives.”

“No, you lost me my _candy,_ and you proved yourself to be a coward!” Roman took a step back, his tiny hands curled into tight, shaking fists.

_“Shut up,”_ Remy growled. “I don’t care about your _candy._ Just use your little _golden-child_ _puppy-dog-eyes_ on Dad, he’ll buy you all the candy you want! What _I_ care about is the fact that you almost just got us killed! And, worse, you made me look stupid in front of, like, _half_ my grade. So _please,_ just shut up, go home, and — and get the hell out of my life!”

Roman froze. His face — which had been burning with anger just a moment ago, eyes narrowed, teeth bared in a snarl — fell horribly empty. Remy’s outburst hung in the air between them, thick and heavy and barbed with a thousand thorns, and he only had a moment to feel regret before Roman burst into tears and ran off.

“Roman, no!” Remy cried, but Roman didn’t go very far. He fell dramatically against a hay-bale out in front of one of the houses around them and sobbed into his arms, and Remy slowed to a stop behind him, cold regret eating away at his lungs. God, why did he _speak?_ Why did God curse him with vocal chords?

“I — I — I know you’re sad we left home, and I — I know you’re an _angsty teen _now — but —” Roman curled in on himself, his face buried in the crook of his arm. “That doesn’t mean you get to be so _mean_ all the time!”

“Oh, hun,” Remy whispered, kneeling down beside him. “I’m sorry, I… I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t want you out of my life. You make my life, like… at least 60% better.”

“75,” Roman mumbled into his arm. Remy laughed.

“Alright, alright. 75% better.” He leaned against the hay-bale and slid down until he was sitting at Roman’s level, and leaned into his side. “I just, like — I _really_ miss home. And being out tonight just... reminded me of how much I’ve lost, yknow?”

“This _is_ your home now,” Roman said, swiping at his face with his sleeves, “so get used to it.”

Remy sighed. “You’re right, girl,” he said, rubbing his eyes behind his shades. “C’mon. The night’s still young. Let’s get your candy back.”

Roman lifted his head, hope sparkling in his eyes. “Are we going to launch a campaign against those foul villains to steal back our candy?”

“No?” Remy snorted. “We’re just gonna trick-or-treat more.”

“Oh.” Roman pushed himself to his feet. “That’s cool too.”

“Glad you approve,” Remy shoved himself to his feet too, the corners of his mouth twitching. He allowed a fond smile to slip onto his face for a split second — only once Roman’s back was turned, of course — and then he shook it away and stepped up beside his brother. “You ready — wait, what was that?”

“What?” Roman asked quickly, head swiveling every-which-way. “What is it?”

“I saw something,” Remy said, voice slow, suspicious. He glared up at the sky, eyebrows furrowed. “Something flew across the moon.”

“Really?” Roman’s eyes grew wide as saucers. He craned his neck and stared at the sky. “Where? I wanna see! I —”

Remy pounced, scooping Roman up in his arms and spinning him around with a feral growl. Roman’s scream echoed around the street, quickly dissolving into giggles as Remy wiggled his fingers into Roman’s stomach. “Lemme go!” Roman cried between laughter. “You — you pumpkin-spiced dork!”

With one last twirl, Remy set him back down, and straightened his jacket. “Here,” he said, drawing a bag from his pocket. His mother had made him take it, as though he’d ever trick-or-treat — but now he was thankful he had it. At least Roman could make good use of it. “Shall we, hun?”

“We shall!” Roman took the offered bag with a toothy grin, and skipped down towards the nearest house. He slowed to a stop at the front gate, eyes widening, and Remy couldn’t blame him. It was _massive._

“Rich people,” they said at the same time, raising their eyebrows in identical expressions of part awe, part disdain. Roman laughed.

“They’ll probably make us drink apple cider.”

“Cider’s delish, hun,” Remy said. “Besides, they’ve probably got the _best_ candy. This whole neighborhood _reeks_ of Gucci.”

Roman thought for a moment, and then nodded, his eyes lighting up. He marched down the driveway with all the conviction and excitement a nine-year-old on a sugar-high could muster, and ducked in through the open door.

“Woah,” Remy said softly as he stepped inside. It was like stepping straight (gay) into a Victorian painting or something. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and rich people galore, each dressed in flowing, ornate gowns or sharp tuxedos. A long, velvet-carpeted staircase spiraled up to the second floor, where a few lone figures stood, looking down at the party below.

He found Roman at a table in the main room, shoving handfuls of candy into his bag. There were three lollipop sticks sticking out of his mouth already. “Slow down, hun,” Remy said with a laugh, taking a witch-shaped chocolate pop and popping it in his mouth.

“Remy Sanders?”

He turned at the voice, halfway through biting the head off the chocolate witch, and froze. _“Em —”_ He yanked the witch from his mouth and swallowed hard, pushing down the panicked laughter that threatened to spill from his mouth. “Emile?”

Emile — a vision, an angel, dressed in a long, cream-colored dress, laced with hints of the softest pink — laughed. “It is you! Do you how do?” he asked. “I thought you didn’t like Halloween?”

“Oh, I — I don’t,” Remy said, shoving his free hand into his pocket and trying to look as cool as possible. “I’m just taking my younger brother trick-or-treating.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet of you!” Emile gushed, placing a hand over his chest. Remy smirked.

“Yeah, I do it every year!”

“Our parents made him,” Roman said, voice flat. He pushed around Remy and smiled up at Emile, casting Remy a split-second look over his shoulder. The devious look in his eyes made Remy’s heart skip several beats. “I’m Roman! And you must be _Emile._ I’ve heard _so_ much about you.”

The moment of brotherly love had passed; Remy once again wanted to strangle him. Emile raised an eyebrow. “And what have you heard, sweetheart?”

“Oh, you know.” Roman waved a hand dismissively, ignoring Remy’s pointed glare. “He likes your eyes, thinks he could _drown_ in them. And your hair! He thinks it’s… what’s the word you used, Remy? Sexy?”

With a loud burst of panicked, pitchy laughter, Remy grabbed Roman and yeeted him behind him. “That’s! Enough sugar for you!” he managed, face burning bright red. “Kids and their imaginations, right?”

Emile hid his giggles behind his hand, his cheeks wonderfully pink. “Do you really like my hair?” he asked, a hint of mischief sparkling in his eyes, and _wow,_ Remy was _gay_ — and _wow,_ he _really_ wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole right then and there, _anything_ to get out of that situation.

“I — uh — h —”

Emile giggled again, and Roman shot him the most chaotic smile he’d ever seen, a witch-pop shoved halfway in his mouth. “It’s okay,” Emile whispered to Remy, and he _winked,_ he actually fucking _winked,_ and if God was merciful at _all_ She would have killed him right then and there. “Do you like witches, Roman?”

Roman’s eyes lit up. “I loff ‘em!” he said around a mouthful of witch-chocolate. “We jus’ learned ‘bout those brothers in school —”

“The Sanderson brothers?” Emile said in a rush, bouncing up and down excitedly. “I know all about them! I hyperfixated on ‘em for three years when I was younger!”

“That’s so cool!” Roman said, grinning.

“Have you seen the old Sanderson museum? My mom used to work there!”

“Isn’t it closed?” Remy asked, crossing his arms. He was just barely following the conversation; Emile was just as much of a dork as Roman was, and Remy only understood Roman’s rambles on weekends and holidays and all throughout May.

“Well…” Emile turned, drawing out the word slowly for dramatic effect. “I just might so happen to have a key.”

Remy and Roman shared a look. There was a hint of fear in Roman’s round eyes, a bit of apprehension as well — but Remy saw nothing but opportunity. “Why don’t we head over there?” he asked, and Emile’s face lit up.

“Oh! Oh, I’d love to!” He shimmied back and forth excitedly, his skirt swishing around him. “Lemme just go get changed!”

_“Remy,”_ Roman hissed as soon as Emile was out of earshot. “I am _not_ going to that spooky old museum. What about trick-or-treating?”

**“Trick-or-treating is for _children,”_** Remy sighed. “C’mon, girl. **Let’s go cause some trouble.”**

Roman narrowed his eyes. “You don’t wanna cause trouble,” he said. “You just wanna impress Mr. Sexy-Hair —”

_“Stop calling him sexy!”_ Remy whispered, glancing around to make sure no one had heard. “I thought you were a _Prince._ Aren’t Princes supposed to be brave?”

Roman hesitated. “I…”

“Listen. I’ll do anything you want, okay? Just — let me have this.”

_That_ got his attention. Roman smirked, his apprehension giving way to a truly evil delight. “Anything?” he repeated slowly, and Remy nodded, even as cold regret seeped into his lungs. “Perfect. Next year, I’m going as Peter Pan. You’re going to be my Tinker-bell.”

_“What?”_

“Or I could just refuse to go,” Roman said with a nonchalant shrug. “I could just make you take me home.”

“You’re, like, _evil._ You know that, right?”

Emile bounced back down the stairs, pushing the sleeves of his oversized sweater up. _Forearms forearms forearms —_ Remy tore his eyes from Emile and glanced at Roman, who was gathering his things.

“Fine!” he growled, and Roman beamed, his bag swinging by his side. “I hate you.”

“Love you too,” Roman whispered. “Alright! Let’s go!”

“Wow, someone’s eager!” Emile said with a bright smile, twirling the keys around his finger again and again. “You ready, Remy?” he asked, catching Remy’s eyes.

“I —” Remy cleared his throat, forcing his voice at least three octaves deeper. “Witch, _please._ Of course I’m ready.”

It wasn’t much of a walk to the old Sanderson place, though Emile took his time, pointing out everything he loved about their little town along the way. Remy would never admit it, but… through Emile’s eyes, he started to almost — _almost_ — like Salem.

The Sanderson Museum was a small, dilapidated cottage on the edge of town, hidden by a thick copse of trees. Remy wouldn’t have even noticed it, had it not been for the sign, hanging lopsidedly off one chain and displaying, through a layer of dust and disrepair, the Sanderson Brothers’ names.

“So this is where they used to live?” Roman asked, peering at the house. Uncertainty shook beneath his words, beneath the false layer of bravado he’d put on. Emile nodded, eyes alight with excitement as he unlocked the door.

“Yeppers! They would lure young children to this house and suck the life outta them to stay young forever. No one ever caught them in the act, until…”

“Logan Binx,” Remy said. “Right?”

“Yeah,” Emile said. As they stepped into the house, his voice became more subdued, more reverent. “They took his younger brother, Patton. Logan tried to get him back, but… he was too late. The Brothers cursed him to live forever as a cat, trapped with his guilt.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Roman said, arms wrapped tightly around himself. He lingered in the doorway, eyebrows furrowed. “Can we go home now?”

Remy pretended not to hear him. He stepped up to a glass display case in the center of the shop and wiped away a thick layer of dust with his sleeves, eyes narrowed as he peered through the dirty glass.

“That’s their spellbook,” Emile whispered, leaning over his shoulder, his chest pressed into Remy’s side. Remy bit his tongue to keep from screaming. “Legend says it was given to them by Satan himself.”

“It looks like it’s bound in flesh,” Roman said, nose wrinkling in disgust.

“That’s because it is,” Emile said, and Roman took several steps back, shaking his head. He bumped into another display — an off-beige candle, held high atop a wrought-iron candelabra. He yelped, jerking away, and Remy caught him.

“I wanna go home,” Roman whispered.

Remy shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Peter Pan is _not_ worth this,” Roman muttered to himself as Remy approached the candle, raising an eyebrow.

“The Black-Flame Candle,” Emile said. “The Brothers’ final spell. As they were about to be hanged, the eldest enacted a curse, tying their souls to this candle. On a Halloween night, when the moon is full... someone will light the candle, and summon the witches back to life.”

Roman glanced at the full moon outside. “Great. Wonderful.”

Remy smirked, quirking an eyebrow. It was all bullshit anyway — but it was bullshit he could have _fun_ with. Bullshit he could use to get back at Roman for his _sexy hair_ comments earlier, at least. He swiped a lighter from the counter and leaned against the post beside the candle, pulling his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. “Well, then,” he said. “Why don’t we light it and meet ‘em?”

“Very funny, Remy,” Roman said. He wasn’t laughing.

“Come on, girl, where’s your sense of adventure?” Remy flicked open the lighter; the flame danced, though there wasn’t any wind. “Let’s —”

A blur of black and a hideous yowl, and suddenly he was on the ground. He shoved blindly with a cry of fright and scrambled to his feet just in time to see a black cat slink back into the shadows.

“Are you okay?” Emile asked, rushing to his side. “Great Googly Moogly, that was spooky… we should go, Remy.”

“No, come on!” Remy brushed off his jacket and reopened the lighter. He wasn’t about to let some stupid superstitions keep him from wreaking a _little_ havoc. He lifted the lighter to the candle —

“Remy, _no!” _Roman cried —

And the whole house began to shake.

Darkness crawled up the flame, staining it deeply, impossibly black — and one by one, each light in the house burst, sending shards of glass flying. Remy leaped across the room and wrapped his arms around Roman, squeezing his eyes shut as flames burst to life to replace the broken bulbs. He reached across the room and Emile took his hand and held tight as the floor began to break beneath them, poisonous green light spilling out beneath the cracks. Laughter echoed around them — _inside_ them, spinning through Remy’s head in maddening whirl —

The door burst off its hinges and landed with a crash at their feet. Remy yanked them behind the counter in a blind panic, his heart pounding. _Holy shit,_ he thought, as the laughter solidified, as three shadows stretched across the floor.

He peeked around the corner of the counter. Three figures stood in the doorway, framed by smoke and moonlight — one in robes of deep, emerald green, with a thick mustache curled across his face; another in a long, patched purple dress, a cloak wrapped around his shoulders and drawn up over his face, so only his glowing purple eyes were visible —

And the leader. A man in yellow and black, with one glowing golden eye and a face covered in yellow-green scales. He took a deep breath, eyes slipping shut, a venomous smile growing on his face.

“Brothers,” he whispered, in a voice like a thousand hissing snakes. “We’re home.”


End file.
